Giving Ground
by TrinityC
Summary: When did Draco become so enthralled? Draco's-eye-view of S-Star's "Tame". Dark and angsty...


**Author's Note:** Written as a Draco's-eye-view of S_Star's superbly dark fic _Tame_, which you really need to read before you read this. Go check out her profile in my Favourite Authors listing and read the fic! It's dark as all hell, hence the supremely angsty tone of this piece!

This is for S_Star, of course, and for Becki, who has been badgering me to write Draco for some time...evil, _evil_, I tell you!

**Disclaimer:** The characters belong to J K Rowling, not to me. Obviously. The lyrics are from _Bliss_ and _Space Dementia_ by Muse, though I've changed a couple of words here and there.

  
  
  
**Giving Ground**

I sit at breakfast, surrounded by my followers, letting their inane chatter flow over me. Nobody can tell I'm struggling with all my might not to look up, not to glance over at the Gryffindor table, at _him_. Nobody, of course, except him. I can practically sense the self-satisfied smirk from here. I don't need to look up to see it.

But oh, Merlin, it's virtually a reflex action. Just a glance, a fleeting glimpse of him, enough to get me through the beginning of the day.

When did this happen? When the fuck did I become so enthralled by Harry fucking Potter? And for that matter, when did Mr Golden Boy turn into such a fucking psycho? It's a pretty damn impressive transformation really, and all hidden behind that carefully-maintained front. He really didn't take well to growing up; all that snapping and whining at people in the fifth year was just the tip of the iceberg. It's only me who gets to see the rest, the psychosis underneath the skin of the hero. And yet it's him who's in control, and me who's running to obey like a frightened puppy, yes master, sorry master, how do you want me, master? Completely fucking tamed.

My father would have a fit if he could hear my language these days. He hates 'those vile Muggle words', his distaste for the non-wizarding world shining through as usual. And what would he have to say if he knew his only son was crawling round after the Boy who Lived?

_Everything about you is so easy to love_. Everything about his daytime self, maybe. To others, I mean. All that goody-goody saving-the-world shit does nothing for me. It's the part of him that only truly comes out at night that I've found myself craving. The dominant, implacable master who makes me revel in his cruelty, who makes me beg and plead for release.

_You make me sick, because I adore you so. I love all the dirty tricks and twisted games you play on me_. The ropes, the cuffs, the whip and the ring and the knives. But not least the mind games. The animosity in the corridors, the air crackling with the tension that nobody else but us can feel. The sweet-voiced almost-pleasantries that veil the cold hard truth, _the bed's mine, Draco, I thought we agreed?_. We agreed nothing, and we both know it. He decreed, and I accepted, and lay down on the cold stone floor at his feet.

I know he's waiting for the daytime signs of defiance to stop, for me to stop insulting him in class, hitting out just that little bit too hard in Quidditch matches, picking fights in the corridors. Defiance by night has long been a thing of the past. I've learned that if I obey the rewards are sweeter, and I hate my slavish addiction to that pleasure that only he gives me, though there are enough Slytherins that would fall to their knees and worship me so fucking hard if I only raised an eyebrow.

_You make me want to die; I cut your name in my heart. I'll destroy this world for you, I know you want me to...feel your pain_. And that's the killer. That even with all there is between us, I know he hurts deep inside and damn me for a fool but I want to take that away. Maybe that's why I'm letting him inflict so much pain on me. I fucking hate myself for it, but I can't help caring; he's drawn me in and now I can't escape. I'm marked for ever as his; "Property of Harry Potter" charmed into the skin just over my hipbone, and it burns my pride but oh Merlin, when he leans over me and licks it with that rough little tongue...it's then I know I'm lost.

I hate myself more and more each day, as I'm forced to watch myself giving ground, little by little by little. It gets harder and harder to maintain the superior sneer of his name when we meet by day, "what now, _Potter_?", when that treacherous little part of me wants more than anything to whisper "how do you want me...Harry?" I despise that part of me, but however much I try, I can't kill it, can't stop its advance. It absorbs more of me every day.

And I have to look up. I have to. I've got to show him that he doesn't have me beaten yet. I can shoot him a filthy look, filled with defiance, and still get that glimpse of him without losing the last of my pride. And my eyes flicker upwards, and over towards his table. And he doesn't even respond. 


End file.
